Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

before.

It’s the fear – and the hidden (waiting) rage that slides down his spine like an unwanted lover – that makes him think it’s possible. He doesn’t care about his second-hand hurts, doesn’t care about the faded bruises on his body that don’t belong to him, doesn’t even really care about the way Tod’s eyes linger on his unmarked neck.

All he cares about is his brother, looking smaller than White could have ever imagined, skin pale against the stark white sheets underneath the purple, blue, and black marks all over his comatose body. And so, he forgets – or more like discards the knowledge away like old trash – that though his brother may have the same body as him without all the tattoos and piercing, he and his brother have always had one stark difference between them.

White is a submissive – the small black inked image of coiled rope against his left wrist that appeared when he was 7 giving him away even before his personality does.

Black, however, is definitely not.

Even though White wasn’t there when Black’s status bloomed across his wrist; he never had any doubt that Black would become a dominant. The mark that would be on Black’s wrist is covered over with a thick black stripe, hiding his status from being out in the open. But, with the way Tod’s been speaking about Black, his twin hardly needs the mark to showcase to the world who and what he is.

But that knowledge is surface level, something he barely gives any thought to before moving on to, assumedly, more important things. Like getting his ears pierced and putting on one of his brother’s earrings – the backwards claim doing more to settle him than anything in the past few years. White can almost feel his brother’s hand on the back of his nape, warm, steady, and protective like he’d been before they got forcibly ripped apart.

Getting his brother’s tattoo on him is another claim, a promise of the protection – the love– that White would always give his other half.

And, despite his intensive training in diplomatic affairs, despite White constantly overthinking every problem that may arise so that he always has a solution, he does not think anything about how very not dominant he himself is.

It’s only when he’s got Sean’s hand clamped hard on the back of his neck, his taller frame towering over him, and a hard – but still mesmerizing – glint in the other man’s eyes, that he realizes just how out of his depth he’s in, how impossible his self-given mission is.

Fuck.

He’s screwed.

Chapter Text

now.

He knows he should’ve showered the chlorine – and the sweat tinged with adrenaline and fear – off his body when he dragged himself into his apartment last night and passed out on top of his sheets last night.

He’s proven right when he wakes up and his bed is wet, the chlorine mixing violently with a sharp tang and lingering in the air.

Self-loathing is a familiar taste to him, like the blood that used to flood his mouth when he bit his tongue in the face of his mother’s disdain. This has a different shade, though, a little bit wilder. A little bit rawer. It’s darker now, no longer flowing through his veins, but staining his bones. He would’ve thought he hit rock bottom, but it seems like he always has a new hole to fall into, new waters to dro-

His bed is wet.

The corners of his vision are blurry, and that’s what makes him sit up, nose wrinkled and clothes sticking to him like a second skin. He doesn’t have time for this shit.

He clambers out of the bed and immediately strips off the sheets, taking everything off until all that’s left is the mattress, which is thankfully dry due to the waterproof mattress protector. He leaves the mess in a pile next to his nightstand and strips, placing his clothes on top of the sheets and pillow covers.

His skin is clammy, so he ignores the clutter and heads to the shower.

He ignores his own flinch at the first splashes of water against his skin, grits his teeth at the unwelcome reminder of yesterday, and forces himself to relax against the warmth pouring down his front. He soaps up and scrubs his skin until it’s red and irritated but makes sure to gently wash parts of his hips.

After washing the soap off, he checks the dark scabs on the side of his hip to make sure it’s healing nicely.

“Fuck.”

Pressure sores were a pain in the ass, but he knew he was lucky that he had gotten away with tender skin and dark scabs instead of blisters. When he’s done checking his coma wounds, he turns the water off, ignoring his shaky breathing echoing throughout the small room.

He steps out, holding one hand against the wall and resting his stomach on the edge of the sink so he doesn’t fall, and then grabs the moisturizer. He checks his sores once again and then opens the cap. After gently rubbing his bruised skin with moisturizer and barrier cream, he walks out of the bathroom and beelines towards his drawer. He takes out a pair of boxers and puts them on, making sure to sag them underneath his hips.

His vision is still a little burry on the edges and he’s been ignoring the slight tightness in his chest ever since he noticed how wet he was when he woke up, so he’s not entirely surprised when the sight of the pile on the floor makes his eyes fully tear up.

He is fucking irritated at himself, though. He looks into the mirror on his wall.

“Get your shit together, Black. You should’ve never gotten that comfortable anyway.”

The look in his eyes doesn’t fade though, so he turns around and ignores the shudders going through his whole body. Then he pretends that the pile is White’s mess and the ache in his chest lessens some.

Taking care of White had been his job - his favorite duty - in his childhood and, ever since White came back to him, it resumed again, one that he would take for the rest of his life with pride and happiness.

(And when Black finally makes his way to the apartment basement, body aching and hurting everywhere from the strain, he ignores the tears still lingering in his eyelashes and pretends that from the constant acknowledgement that White isn’t only Black’s anymore.

That he’s also that asshole Sean’s.

Because, well.

Crying about White had always been easier than crying for himself.)